


scrub the salt from my stinging skin

by thorduna



Series: Oneshots [7]
Category: Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Bathtubs, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 09:33:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thorduna/pseuds/thorduna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Thor week prompt "Solo Thor NSFW appreciation"</p><p>Thor relaxes after a hard hay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	scrub the salt from my stinging skin

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Caroline for beta-reading!
> 
> thorweek.tumblr.com - absolutely fabulous event, you should check it out.
> 
> I loved writing a fully Thor-centric piece! Enjoy some godly goodness.

Thor enters his chambers and the moment the door closes behind him, his shoulders slump minutely, muscles relaxing just a bit. His day is over and he couldn't be gladder for it.

 

He heads towards his bathing chamber, a beautiful room of polished gold and marble, with a sunken bath so large that it could serve as a pool. He opens the wide faucet and hot water comes pouring out, filling the bath as he undresses, discarding his armour and underclothes. When he's naked, he rummages through an assortment of vials and boxes full of various oils, soaps and tinctures. The maids always put more than Thor could dream of using at his disposal (seeing as mostly all he needs is soap and occasionally oil for his hair or skin), but today he is glad of it and easily finds a rather large vial of soap that forms copious amounts of bubbles that last for many hours. He used to love bathing in the pleasantly smelling foam when he was little and now, as a grown god, he still sometimes uses it in secret when he wants to relax.

 

He tips the vial above the open faucet, letting the thick fluid mix with the rushing water and soon enough, the pool is covered in white bubbles. At last, he turns the stream off and slips in, groaning a little as the water is just a bit too hot.

 

He settles comfortably soon enough, growing used to the warmth and his eyes slip closed. For long minutes he simply rests, unmoving, soothed by the warmth and pleasantly floating as the water keeps his weight up, but after a while, his hands start to wander.

 

At first his movements are reminiscent of gentle, thoughtless washing; both of his palms are sliding over his skin under the surface, rubbing at places, but then he starts pressing harder, curling his fingers.

 

None would call the god of thunder humble or shy, but he still bites his lip with a twinge of embarrassment or even shame as he palms his own strong muscles. His body is a weapon. He maintains it and uses it and occasionally shows it off, but this... this feels like worship, private and unhinged and he blushes a little. It feels... daring. Too self-indulgent.

 

But he doesn't stop.

 

The soapy water makes his hands glide with almost no resistance at all, his skin is soft and slippery under his fingers and the sensation is like no other. He leaves no inch of his skin untouched, but eventually he focuses more heavily on his chest and stomach, teasing his nipples with the flats of his palms, never going as far as touching them with his fingers. There will be time for that later.

 

He stays submerged for long minutes, keeping up with the light touches even as his cock hardens slowly and tightness grows in his belly. He is not after quick relief.

 

His hair grows damp and heavy in the moist and warm air and he pushes the strands off from his face, stretching before he slowly gets up, water cascading down his body. There is foam sliding down his thigh and he shivers at the feather-light sensation. It tickles a little. Then he picks up one of the large towels and dries himself thoroughly until his skin is buzzing with the rough treatment after the pleasant soak and tender handling. He walks back to his bedroom and another tremor runs through him. The room feels colder, but he is so heated that the contrast feels good. He idly frees some of the braids in his damp hair as he approaches a crammed closet in the corner of the room and opens the lowest drawer, pulling out an inconspicuous box. His fingers slide over the spare carvings in the wood, but he doesn't open it yet, no. Instead, he places it on his bedside table and lies down on the bed. It's a huge thing, imposing and sturdy, filled with soft furs and sheets, its one side elevated by countless pillows. All the bedding is in shades of dark red and dove grey.

 

He listens to his breathing for a few minutes, struggling to keep it slow, but it's not really working. There is tension in his muscles that wasn't helped even by the soak and he slides his hands down his chest again, circling his pecks for a moment before catching his nipples between the thumbs and index fingers of both hands and _squeezing_. A low huff escapes him and he tugs at the hardening peaks with growing force until warmth spreads across his chest and he hisses at the sting. Letting go, he swallows more air and heaves himself higher up on the bed, so he's half-sitting against the pillows. He looks down at himself, gaze going past the red blotches over his torso down to his half-hard cock.

 

It would be easy to just take himself in hand and stroke himself to completion. But that's not his plan at all.

 

He bends his legs and parts them, bringing the soles of his feet together and closer to his body, knees low. His stomach tightens a little. He feels exposed like this and it's exactly the sharp feeling that spurns him on. He sets his hands to his knees and lets them trail down his thighs, on the inner side of them until he can slot them into his loins, elbows to the side, just teasing around his sex. He massages the tendons there between his thumb and the rest of his palm, torturing himself with the closeness to his ever-swelling cock. But he won't touch himself.

 

Pushing his body into the pillows, he cants his hips up a bit better and sneaks his hands lower; both of them. He reaches under himself, grasping the bottom of his ass cheeks as well as he can from this position and once again, the daring indulgence of the touch makes his breath hitch. He only keeps at it for a short while though because there is another temptation and this he doesn't deny himself. With one hand pulling gently to keep himself spread, he slides the other between his cheeks and caresses his hole lightly. As much as he enjoy using generous amounts of oil for any such activities, there is something very raw and open in the dry touch of a finger-pad against the furl of skin and he shuts his eyes, a quiet moan escaping his lips.

 

But then he does reach for oil, uncorking the glass bottle and pouring some into his palm before sliding the fingers of his other hand into it, coating them thoroughly. He doesn't hesitate reaching down between his spread thighs. His fingers slide easily into the cleft of his ass and he keens a little, trying to swallow the sound even if there is no one to hear it. His fingers feel warm, almost burning and the slick feeling of the oil is so richly sensual that he trembles with impatience. He circles the rim of his hole with the tip of his middle finger and finally pushes it in until his palm is pressed flat against his ass. His free hand finds its way to his chest and he pinches first one, then the other already sore nipple. He can feel his muscles tightening in response around his finger and so he adds another, going against the stretch until he is clenching his teeth in a mixture of pain and desire.

 

Relaxing a little, he works his fingers in and out in practised but delicious motions until he simply can't wait for more. Pulling his fingers out with a parting circle of his rim, he opens the box he prepared, uncaring of the mess he makes with his slick hands. The box hides an elegant object made from something akin to glass, only it's sturdier, lighter and prone to carrying enchantments. Gift from the crafty Ljosalfar. Its shape is very obvious – it's phallic, covered in raised ridges that however bear little similarity to actual cocks, they are simply made with the best possible stimulation on mind. Thor covers it in more oil, unthinkingly biting his lip as his palm works over the glassy shaft. When it's dripping oil, he flips it in his hand and traces a simple rune at the blunt end. The object immediately starts gently pulsing in his hand, like the fluttering of wings.

 

Suddenly impatient, he lies back and rises his hips just enough to slot the glass cock between his cheeks. He lets himself feel the vibration for a moment around his rim, tracing it, dipping the tip in and out teasingly and then he finally slides it all in. He doesn't hold back and pushes the toy deep into himself before pulling it out completely. And in again. His breath is hitching and a drop of sweat runs down his chest, makings its way through the valley his pecks make as both his arms reach down, straining. He holds the end of the fake cock with both hands because he loves the strength he feels when he does it, loves the symmetry of balanced pressure he puts inside him. And all the while, his cock lays straining against his belly, the damp head peeking out, purpling red, from the foreskin even though he didn't touch himself at all.

 

He watches. Watches his chest, with nipples teased to an angry red, the raised planes they are perched on, his stomach, deeply defined (but right now quivering helplessly with pleasure), his suffering cock and finally, his spread thighs and the toy disappearing between them in a languid rhythm. He burrows the toy so deep in that he groans, head falling back and then he tilts it, changes the angle just so and his vision is washed with white for a split second.

 

If he was teasing himself before by ignoring his cock, it's torture now. He drags the rigged, slicked toy again and again against the well-known spot inside and he twitches desperately. The stimulation is sinfully good, spreading throughout his entire body, but it's never enough and soon he is panting, whimpering, but he doesn't relent. Stubbornly, he pierces himself over and over with the toy until he feels like he's on fire and his cock aches unbearably.

 

_A while longer._

 

And yes, he does, he keeps at it, letting out increasingly loud and desperate sounds as his insides burn with need and his hands speed their motion. Wet sounds accompany his constant moaning now as the oil drips from his loose hole. He's brutal with himself now, fucking the fake cock hard into himself, working the spot to the point of pain until he can't- he really can't take it anymore and he lets go of the base of the toy with one hand, the other still furiously working it and he finally wraps a slick palm around his wet, burning cock and strokes.

 

 

He shouts and his whole body contorts, curling in and he squeezes his cock, tugs at it as he spills thick ropes of semen all over his chest, ass stretched wide against the glass cock as he keeps pushing it in with a trembling hand. He tears a few desperate twitches from his cock by bumping against the spot inside a couple more times, but then he stops, releasing his cock and pulling the toy out.

 

He is breathing heavily, eyes shut, his body yearning to relax, but still caught in a tremble of strained muscles. He lies unmoving until he feels the sweat and spill drying on his skin and he knows he needs another bath. He always does.

 

When he's washed up and the box put away once more, he covers himself with soft sheets and lets out a breath, smile tugging at his lips. He's never felt so good.


End file.
